


Will That Be All, Sir?

by krith



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, F/M, Impact Play, Inappropriate Workplace Relationship, Power Dynamics, Top Mycroft Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:22:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27354166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krith/pseuds/krith
Summary: Please note that this work is incomplete and abandoned! I absolutely will not be finishing it. However, what exists is pretty substantial, and kind of interesting, so may be worth a look for some Mythea shippers, since there's not much out there.Slow burn SM relationship between Anthea and a stand-offish Mycroft. Pretty much just smut.Originally written June 2015.
Relationships: Anthea/Mycroft Holmes
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12
Collections: Krith's Mycroft/Anthea fic





	Will That Be All, Sir?

**Author's Note:**

> I will be posting some of the better of my old, abandoned Mycroft fics as part of a larger project about fanfiction that I'm working on. While I always appreciate comments, I also know the pain of an incomplete fic, so I want to be transparent that no amount of begging will get me to resume work on these fics. I hope their quantity and quality may partially make up for their incomplete-ness.

When she finally slipped, it was, admittedly, because she had just taken a bullet for her employer.

They were in Tokyo, and Mr. Holmes had taken them to ground in the seediest hotel room that he could find while they waited for backup. It might have been an exaggeration to claim that Anthea had “taken” the bullet, but the graze across her ribs was bleeding freely. She sat on the lone chair with a towel beneath her, bare from the waist up, as he knelt beside her and tended the wound, his mouth pressed into a grim line. Looking at his expression, it occurred to Anthea that whomever had been behind the failed attempt would probably have been better off injuring Mr. Holmes himself.

“Lift your arm,” he said, his voice hard and tight.

She obeyed silently, ignoring the flutter in her stomach that sometimes happened when he gave her orders. He was so close to her that she could smell his cologne beneath the fresh sweat from their mad dash, but it was easy to tell herself that her pounding heart was only due to adrenaline from being shot and chased. She had long practice with ignoring the --  _ inappropiate _ \-- effects that he sometimes had on her, and now was certainly not the time. He had finally gotten the wound sterilized to his satisfaction. Now he wanted to get a better look at it to decide whether he was going to send her for stitches once they were extracted.

“How’s it look?” she asked him through gritted teeth, trying to raise her elbow slightly higher. That was when Mr. Holmes took hold of her upper arm and used it to rotate her torso slightly so that she would be at a better angle to the paltry light in the room, which  _ hurt _ .

The slip was minor, so very minor. She was a bit dizzy from the wound and the flight, unnerved by the potent closeness of a man who she spent sixty hours a week trying to pretend was just her boss, and unmoored by the pain that shot through her as he manhandled her.

She groaned, her thighs pressing together for a second. She swallowed it immediately,  _ almost _ before it escaped her lips, and stilled her body, looking away. 

Almost was  _ definitely _ not good enough to escape the notice of Mycroft Holmes.

He paused only briefly, and though she didn’t dare to meet his eyes, she was aware that they flicked upward from her ribs to her expression in the aftermath of the response that she’d just tried to hide. She didn’t know what look might be on his face -- didn’t want to know, and couldn’t give herself away further by trying to see. Given that it’d happened, given that she knew that he noticed it, the best thing that she could think of to do was simply ignore it and hope he would do the polite thing.

He started to open his mouth, then abruptly he closed it and pressed a flannel against her side. “No stitches this time,” he told her instead, taking her hand and putting it over the cloth so that she could hold it herself. “But I want it cared for properly to minimize the scarring.”

“Yes, sir,” Anthea replied, finally straightening up properly and still unable to meet his eyes while the blush still lingered on her cheeks.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Mycroft Holmes noticed  _ everything _ .

He actually took her blouse to the sink and applied soda water to the bloodstain. Thank goodness she’d been wearing black today. He then patted it dry enough for her to have something to put on so that she wouldn’t have to sit there, exposed.

* * *

He allowed almost two weeks to pass after the incident in the hotel room. He knew that she was fully healed from the unfortunate graze, and even he needed time to think sometimes. This wasn’t really a scenario that he’d anticipated, and he’d needed to thoroughly consider both the benefits and the potential costs of taking advantage of it.

It was a Tuesday, innocuous enough, and she’d just entered his office wearing a particularly fetching pair of high heels. She began his morning briefing with her Blackberry in her hand as usual, as he usually did not object to her constant multi-tasking.

Today, however, he had something else in mind. He had several loose sheets of stationery on his desk and was scrawling his way across them with his best fountain pen as she spoke, and he didn’t look up as he interrupted her.

“Anthea.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’d like your full attention this morning, please.”

He couldn’t see the expression on her face, but she lowered her Blackberry slowly. “Yes, sir,” she said again, a pleasing note of uncertainty in her voice. She waited another beat, and when he didn’t say anything else, she resumed briefing him on the previous night’s events in a slightly more… careful tone.

He didn’t offer any comment or directive as she proceeded, which was rare but not without precedence, and at the end he let her peter out and stand there for a moment as he continued to write.

“Will that be all, sir?” she asked politely after a stretch of silence.

“No.”

She didn’t fidget, just stood attentively as he wrote to the bottom of the page in front of him and then pushed it aside for a fresh sheet. He could practically smell her curiosity and wariness in the air. Most of his former aides would have been in tears by now. Not because they were so fragile, but because Mycroft Holmes acting unpredictably could mean such very terrible things.

“You enjoy pain, don’t you, Anthea?” Mycroft asked conversationally, starting a new paragraph with the new page.

There was a brief pause before she answered him, which he’d expected, but her voice was steady. “Yes, sir.”

“Hm.” He gave her a moment to sit with that question, and she didn’t so much as shift her weight. Good girl. "And you are attracted to me, aren't you? To my power. And to my cruelty, I think."

Her pause this time was longer, and now there was a very slight tremor to her voice. She’d weathered a host of international crises at his side without ever such much as a wobble. "Yes, sir," she admitted, reluctantly. 

Mycroft carefully concealed the conflicted surge of triumph at her words. He signed his name to the letter he'd written and then he finally looked up directly at his assistant. She was staring at him, deliciously nervous, but he kept his expression neutral. 

"And would you like me to do something about that, Anthea?"

She was caught in his gaze, he could feel it, and she licked her lips and swallowed hard as she thought about the answer to his question. He waited her out patiently, and after a moment she took a deep breath. "Only if it's what you want, sir," she said softly. 

He gave her a small smile, and she flushed. She was beginning to tremble, but she was doing her best to hide it.

"Very well, Anthea. Thank you. That is all, for now."

She turned and walked out of the room, her natural grace and long years of practice preventing a wobble even in her current state. He couldn’t actually smell her arousal, not from here, but he could read it in every line of her body.

After the door closed behind her, he shifted in his chair, ignoring the cause of his own discomfort, and reached for the top file on his inbox.

* * *

Months passed without another word from him about the conversation that they’d had… well, that he had had at her, anyway. She wasn’t about to bring the matter up -- she may not have the brilliant mind of Mycroft Holmes, but she wasn’t  _ stupid _ . She had never counted on this -- that he would choose to cross this line, and in the particularly... forthright, dispassionate fashion that he had. But Anthea was a grown woman, and she knew that if she brought it up again, if she clarified that she wasn’t receptive after all, that he would let the matter drop. That was part of why he was waiting, to let her think about it.

She didn’t change her mind.

It wasn’t until the Reichenbach affair that the matter arose again. Mycroft had just received word that Sherlock had invited Moriarty to the St. Bart’s rooftop as planned. He had decided to wait out the final phase from his home office, a choice he only ever made when the matter concerned his wayward little brother. Anthea was attending him there, as she sometimes did, which never fazed her. She conducted all of his daily business by Blackberry in order to stay mobile with him.

It was about five minutes later that Mycroft leapt to his feet and began to pace the length of the office. It was a behavior that she had literally never seen from him before, not even in times of terrible international threat. Only Sherlock could agitate him this much.

Anthea lowered her Blackberry and eyed her boss as he made his way across the room for the second time. She observed him for a moment -- of course he would have noted her observing him, even in his current state.

He turned on his heel, arms crossed, and started back down his track. Anthea dropped her Blackberry onto the side table by the couch where she’d been working, untucked her feet from beneath her, stood up by stepping into her heels, and walked directly into his path.

Mycroft looked startled, but Anthea simply faced off against him squarely to bring him to an abrupt halt, and put her hand on his forearm.

“There’s nothing you can do until we hear back, sir,” she said firmly.

He looked irritated. “I realize that, Anthea. Or were you concerned that I might have suddenly become an  _ idiot _ in the last five minutes?”

She didn’t even wince at his venomous tones, nor withdraw her hand from his sleeve. She just pushed forward. “Is there something that I can do to help you relax while you wait, sir?” she asked calmly, making sure that her voice was straightforward, not at all coy or seductive. The latter would run him off.

For a fleeting second he looked almost stunned, but then his features resolved into his most careful mask. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, just gazed down at her with those chilly, assessing eyes, but Anthea refused to be quelled. She knew what she was doing. 

Well, she didn’t. But whatever it was, she knew that she damn well meant to be doing it.

After a pause, he seemed to come to the same conclusion, because he didn’t ask her if she was sure about her offer. He said, “Yes, there is,” and then he simply grabbed her tightly by the upper arm and dragged her across the room to the front of his desk. Once there he turned her around and backed her up against the edge, her bum striking up against it, his hips crowding hers just short of actual contact between their bodies, his hands on her waist.

She put her palms down on the smooth wood behind her, not yet sure that he would let her touch him. He swiftly unbuttoned her blouse, his eyes on his hands. Then he pushed her shirt off her shoulders so that it descended into a satiny pool around her wrists on the desk. He quickly unclasped the front of her bra and pushed that away as well, and within a few seconds she found herself bare from the waist up and over the desk of Mycroft Holmes.

Anthea only hadn’t lost her breath yet because she’d been braced for what she might be provoking. She did her best to keep filling her lungs in spite of her excitement and apprehension. They weren’t exactly starting this thing off with him in a good mood.

His hands immediately cupped her breasts, and something about the look on his face told her instantly that he had already imagined this exact moment. Mycroft might be brilliant, but Anthea? She knew two things like no one else: her job as Mycroft’s right hand, and men. It just so happened that for the first time she was combining the two. 

She let herself moan softly on the exhale, and his eyes flickered between her face and her breasts as he tugged cruelly at both of her nipples.

Now she would have had to hold back the groan, which she didn’t, and he didn’t seem to object to her vocalizations. He wasn’t really giving her any kind of polite warm up, simply taking hold of her body and beginning to hurt her, and she felt an incredible gush of arousal into her french knickers.

He didn’t give her any variation or break, simply stood statue-still before her, watching her as he continued to bear down on her sensitive nipples. She was squirming slightly below him, she couldn’t help it, and he seemed to drink in the response. He held on until she simply could not restrain the faintest moan that she could manage, having to give voice to the unrelenting nature of the pain that he was inflicting on her. When he released her she gasped loudly and then panted for a moment to try to get her breath back.

He was utterly, completely focused on her. He trailed a single finger down from her sternum and across her bare stomach, past the waist of her skirt and over its fabric until just above the initial swell of her mons. “Does that arouse your body?” he asked her softly, his grey eyes glittering. Anthea had meant to stay composed through as much of this as she could, but the fact was that he’d had his hands on her for about three minutes and this was already the most intense sexual experience of her life. 

“Yes, sir,” she admitted in the most composed voice that she could muster.

Just a hint of a smile, then. Then he took hold of her nipples again between his fingers and thumbs, and she bit her lip as he bore down just as hard the second time.

Anthea’s noises were significant now, and she was rocking her hips slightly against the edge of the desk, pressing her slippery thighs together. Her eyelids fluttered but she mostly managed to keep looking up at him, wanting to remember every second of his incredible focus bent on her like this. 

“I’m going to leave you bruised,” he told her softly. “Tomorrow and the next day, I’ll know that you’re aching because of my hands, that you’ll feel it as your sore nipples rub against your blouse. No undergarments until every bruise is fully healed, Anthea, do you understand?”

She gave up all pretense at keeping herself together, his words tearing to shreds any inhibitions that she might have had remaining. He’d already thought about what he wanted to do to her at moments like this, she was sure, and the knowledge that he’d be able to enjoy her resultant discomfort for days was clearly as exciting for him as it was for her.

She nodded eagerly. “Yes, sir, I understand,” she told him breathlessly.

He released her again and she gasped in relief. Then he slid his right hand up into the thickest part of her hair above the nape of her neck, made a tight fist, and pulled her head back toward the desk, bowing her back. He applied his mouth to her right nipple, again not bothering with any kind of gradualness to his onslaught, simply taking the taut nub between his sharp teeth and beginning to alternatively bite and suck her roughly. Now there would be no doubt about the bruising, and she was nearly driven out of her mind knowing that that was exactly why he was doing it.

He angled his hips against hers now, his thigh pressing firmly at the apex of hers. She no longer tried to restrain her various vocalizations, but Mycroft made not a sound as he ravaged her. He took his time before moving to her other nipple and then treating it to just as lengthy an assault.

By now she felt a desperate aching between her slippery thighs, her mind torn between the awful, wonderful things that he was doing to her body and the increasing desire to feel his fingers inside of her. But he showed no inclination to move things along at all, though when he finished up with her second nipple he pulled back and regarded her open, needy expression.

He let go of her hair and pulled her upright, moving back just a bit to keep his balance, which left her whimpering with loss. He gave her a mock frown. “Don’t worry, my dear, you’re going to like this next bit,” he told her, reaching up and deftly freeing his tie from his collar.

Anthea swallowed hard, and indeed he proceeded to do exactly what she thought that he was going to, wrapping his tie around her arms just above her elbows. He drew up the slack with some loops in between, pulling her elbows together behind her back in an uncomfortable position that forced her to arch again.

She tried to put her weight on her hands, hoping to support herself in a way that relieved the ache of the difficult position. With a quirk of his lips he pushed her backward off balance onto the desk so that she landed on her own bound elbows, her weight causing her considerable discomfort now. She emitted a soft sound of distress.

He loomed over her now, his fingers finding her nipples again, which were now so bruised that even a gentle touch would have made her hiss. This was not a gentle touch, and she heard a strangled sob of obvious pain escape her. She did her best to swallow it back, but he had her too off-balance and was hurting her too much now.

“You know that this office is perfectly sound-proofed, Anthea. You’re welcome to scream if it helps.” His voice sounded strangely kind, in contrast to his continuing abuse of her nipples.

“Thank you, sir,” she gasped, and stopped trying to hold back every moan and whimper now that he’d given her permission. He leaned in close to her face, which she knew was now strained between the pain in her shoulders and elbows from her awful position and the tight grip that he was keeping on her. 

“Do you want more, Anthea?” he asked her softly, eyes studying her expression closely.

She could barely speak anymore, so she nodded instead, caught halfway between wantonness and misery, in an abandoned state that could really only be reached by these means. 

He gave her an encouraging smile, but his fingers did not relent. “More pain, or do you want pleasure now?” He spoke barely above a whisper, and it sent a hard shiver through her entire body. She forced herself to open her eyes and look at him.

“More pain, please, sir,” she begged through her gathering tears. 

Mycroft inhaled sharply then, looking surprised and pleased. He finally released her and she exhaled explosively, collapsing bonelessly onto her strained shoulders. His thigh was still pressed firmly between hers, and he reached down and coaxed the fabric of her skirt up around her waist.

He pulled back a bit and looked down at the sodden mess that passed for her knickers, then she saw him glance down at the front of his own trousers with a moue of distaste. Anthea felt a wave of embarrassment that he’d soiled himself against her, but at the same time she relished the thought that Mycroft Holmes was now marked with her scent. His eyes narrowed at her as if he read the smug thought off her face.

He reached into his inner jacket pocket and withdrew the pocketknife that she knew that he generally carried. It was well known within Britain’s halls of power that if Mycroft Holmes wanted to walk in and out of secured areas with a blade in his pocket, he would consider himself authorized to do so in all circumstance. He was a bit of a dandy, it was true, but he was also a deeply practical man.

He put the knife to a practical use right now, cutting the lace of Anthea’s knickers over each hip. She held her breath and was still while he did this, and the garment was so insubstantial that it took him only a light tug to pull them out from under her slender hips. He tossed them aside on the floor and replaced his pocketknife in its pocket.

She flushed, knowing that later she was going to pick her ruined panties up off of the floor of Mycroft Holmes’ office, since obviously he wasn’t going to do it and she wouldn’t allow the task to fall to anyone else. But then his cool fingers slid in between her slick labia, and Anthea wasn’t thinking about anything except the way that they were talking a tight hold of her delicate inner folds and rolling and tugging at them roughly.

He played with her like this for a while, seeming content to watch her face as she occasionally gave in and thrashed about a bit, moaning loudly. She felt horribly exposed by her body’s dramatic reactions to being so sorely mistreated, by the way that his strong fingers slid easily along her wet folds. There was no pretending that she didn’t love exactly what he was doing.

“This isn’t sex,” he explained. “I want you to understand that right now. I am not interested in having sex with you tonight. I’m interested in the opportunity to hurt you, and I’m using your orgasm as an incentive for you. Do you understand me, Anthea?” His fingers pulled particularly hard on her toward the end, and she had to really concentrate to continue to pay attention in spite of the pain.

“I understand, sir,” Anthea gasped out, no longer able to restrain the urge to rock her hips beneath his ministrations, sometimes even pulling against his fingers in order to add to the strain on her bruised flesh. He seemed to like this.

“And you aren’t offended by this arrangement?” he asked. He didn’t seem concerned, merely curious.

“Do I  _ look _ offended, sir?” Anthea sniped in spite of what he was doing to her, and Mycroft responded with an appreciative lift of the corner of his mouth before he finally stopped pulling at her folds. Instead he snapped his wrist back and landed a loud, sharp smack right across the now wide open terrain of her vulva.

Anthea felt the beginnings of a full-throated scream escape her before she managed to swallow hard on the sound, her whole body wincing in in a futile attempt to defend itself against the sudden blow to her most sensitive flesh. “Shh,” he soothed, pressing his hip against her mons again and she found the sound transformed to a moan as he gave some delicious pressure to her now-tender clit. She rocked against him, in spite of the additional strain that it put on her aching shoulders, reveling in her utter debauchery.

“I’m enjoying it also,” he said, as if he were reading her mind. “In fact, I think I can do even better, can take you apart just a little more.”

His hip disappeared again, and then he landed another from-the-elbow strike across her mons, his fingers connecting resoundingly across the delicate, wet folds, his palm landing with a brutal impact over her clit. 

Anthea squirmed, feeling her now sweat-slick hair clinging to her face and shoulders from the levels of pain that she was enduring. “Again, please, sir,” she begged, opening her eyes so that he could see that she meant it.

Mycroft looked nearly delighted for a moment, then landed a third blow. She fought quickly to catch her breath in order to ask for the next. “Again, please, sir.”

He continued to strike her and she continued to look him in the eye and ask him for each one in turn. After a couple of moments he was clearly becoming intrigued by the severity of the beating that she was still asking for.

Mycroft paused, tugging again at labia that had become tender and bruised in the interim. “Have you ever found the limits of how much pain you can enjoy, Anthea?” he asked curiously. 

She squirmed over her shoulders, which now blazed like fire in their sockets. “No, sir,” she whimpered.

He began to pinch her clit directly, applying firm, steady pressure that made her moan. He seemed to be in the mood for Q&A now. “But you’ve tried? You’ve been hurt like this before?”

Anthea nodded through her tears. “Yes, sir. Often.”

He felt a surge of ugly jealousy, and he increased the tightness of his grip until she mewled. “No one else. Not any more, Anthea. Only I get to hurt you, do you understand?”

“ _ Yes _ , sir,” she cried, face screwed up in pain.

He let go of her clit, then, and she exhaled in relief. So far, she’d said little more than answering his questions and asking for more, and she decided that it was time that she express what she was bringing to the table. “You can hurt me as often as you want, sir, as badly as you want,” she panted recklessly as he continued to use his strong fingers to bruise and mark her however the fancy took him. She was repeatedly reduced to pulling away from him as it got to be too much, but just as often she was rocking into his cruel touch.

“Are you sure that you want to give that kind of license to a man like me?” Mycroft asked seriously, face impassive as his hands tormented her.

She was desperate for him to fully understand; she knew that he needed to. “You have no idea how brutal my fantasies of what you could do to me have been since the day that you raised the issue in your office,” she made herself say, struggling to keep her eyes on his as she said it.

He looked interested, and for a moment the cruelty of his fingers abated as he tilted his head at her. “Tell me then.” He paused. “Tell me one of the worst ones.” 

Anthea bit her lip as she blinked up at him through her tears. “I want you to beat me with your umbrella that way that you did the Breckenridge man,” she admitted.

At these words, Mycroft stilled altogether, gazing down at her in a kind of wonder. He had taken an extremely personal affront to Breckenridge’s betrayal, and had dealt with him by his own hand in a way that he rarely chose to. His various umbrellas were, as many suspected, somewhat modified for his personal self-defense needs, and when Mycroft Holmes had flipped it around so that the point was in his unwavering hand and laid into the traitor’s back, sides, and legs with all his focused and calculated strength, the man had begun begging for mercy within half a dozen blows.

Mycroft had not stopped for a long time, however. He’d been  _ supremely _ irritated.

Anthea went on, knowing that she had him in her spell. “You could even get away with it, once, without besmirching your reputation, couldn’t you, sir? Just tell the staff that it was retribution taken out against me in order to get to you. How much would you enjoy playing unperturbed by the bruises, knowing it was exactly what everyone would expect of you, while secretly you and I knew that you were the one who had done it to me?”

She rocked her groin against his hip, and was fascinated to feel him begin to rock back, angling his hips subtly so that the edge of his substantial erection began to brush against her. Oooh. He had said that it wasn’t about this, but Anthea thought that she had just gotten under his skin in a way that he didn’t expect, if the glassy-eyed fashion in which he was gazing at her as she spun her tale was any indication.

“You would like that?” he asked, his voice a little deeper.

She looked him right in the eye. “Yes. I would.”

Mycroft swallowed, she saw it. “I’m going to make you regret telling me that someday, Andrea,” he said, and now he sounded hoarse. Suddenly he pulled back from her, and Anthea was bereft at the loss of his solidity.

“You’ve given me what I need for tonight, thank you. I’m going upstairs to change into a fresh suit. You may bring yourself off or not as you like while I’m gone, but then put yourself back together promptly. It’s going to be a long night.” All of this was delivered in a tight but composed voice, and Mycroft turned and walked out of the room.

Anthea was unsurprised when Mycroft returned after twenty minutes and went on about the evening as if nothing had happened. He had received the word that Moriarty was dead, Sherlock on his way, John Watson contained and all of the snipers accounted for while he was in his room, and he began to supervise the clean-up in his usual icy fashion.

Months passed after that evening without incident. She was certainly aware of him appreciating her tenderness and her shameless state of dress in the following days, but he didn’t allude to it aloud.

* * *

It was a midwinter morning when she arrived to work and noticed an item inserted into her schedule that she had not put there herself, for 2 am the coming night.

_ Report to cell eight. _

Cell eight.

An unannotated direction for her to report to cell eight in the middle of the night, at a time when no one would be in the building, showing up in her highest clearance level calendar.

The cell where Mycroft preferred to do all of his full-service interrogations.

The cell where Mycroft had disciplined Breckenridge.

Her employer was his usual self that day, so Anthea ignored the storm of emotions in her chest and went to work. She blessed the deeply ingrained habits of excellence that kept her functioning as Mycroft’s right hand -- where he needed her -- despite whatever her internal state might be.

Fortunately the job of running the country was enough to keep her mind occupied until teatime. Mycroft glanced up from the file he was holding as Anthea placed his tea on his desk along with a couple of biscuits.

“You are dismissed for the day, Anthea,” he said evenly, returning his eyes to the rows of figures in front of him.

She hesitated a second. Normally she wouldn’t have, but normally she hadn’t spent the entire day with her heart in the back of her mouth, waiting to see what his next word would bring.

“Now, sir?” she said stupidly, earning only the briefest twitch of one brow.

“Now, Anthea,” he said, with the most delicate emphasis on her working name, making clear that this was an order.

She departed without another word, because what was there to say, really? Please don’t accidentally kill me tonight?

...


End file.
